Londini Lachrymae;
OR,
LONDON'S
COMPLAINT
AGAINST HER
FUGITIVES.
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WHither away? Why do ye fly so fast?
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Cannot Gods Omnipresence check your hast?
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What phrensie has possest Your roving Pates,
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What! is the City run out of the Gates?
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Ye fly like Eagles on the Wings of Wealth,
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To overtake Your Prey afar off, Health:
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As if whoever could but get away,
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Had his Life given to Him for a Prey.
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Go, leave the City; do, and Post ye hence,
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From the sad Centre to th' Circumference.
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The Rocks, and Mountains, and the Paths untrod
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Cannot conceal ye from the Eyes of God.
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Why fly ye then? Is not the Lord, think you,
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God of the Hills, and of the Valleys too?
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Durst ye not trust the Lord in Your behalves,
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That You are gone unto Your Country Calves?
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Is it for this, You to the Hills repair,
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To sacrifice unto the Prince of th' Air,
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Gaping for Air as every One were gone,
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To Board himself with a Camelion?
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like too many did their Trades adjourn,
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As those to Tyburn, never to return:
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And, though his Hand th'avenging Angel stop,
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Are still afraid to come to the Old Shop.
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These Men are sentenc'd to a double doom,
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Come Health, or Sicknesse, still the Plague's at Home;
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For they can Whet their Knives at better rate
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On a Cartwheel, than at the Compter-Gate.
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To such I must confesse a Plague will be,
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Not a Disease, but a Recovery:
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They must have needs shut up and hid the Head,
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Though not with Plague, they had been Visited:
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For Death and Debt they fear on equal score;
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But they are gone, and shall be seen no more.
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The Doctors think too, (whom I therefore mention)
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A Journey now, good Physick for prevention.
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Who, when they see Contagion in such force,
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Prescribe themselves, for Fear, Bills of Divorce.
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Whose Excellencies from the foot-cloth-rank.
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Into the Country sneak to Mount-a-bank.
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Pure Visitants they are, to shun Heav'ns Rod,
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Leave their Poor Patients Visited of God:
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To whom they rid (as now too plain 'tis shown)
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Not to Cure their Diseases, but their own:
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The Fee they like well, that, alass, is sweet,
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But the Destroying Angel fear to meet.
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But here's enough to speak of them, for I
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Count this is just Religio Medici.
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This yet is greater, and it makes me sad,
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Most of the Tribe of Levi's run to Gad.
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Appeased Heaven, 'tis like, this Plague might stay,
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Did every Phinehas but stand up and Pray;
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Too many now are of their Priests bereft,
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And but the meanest of the People left.
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The Parson is (I know not of whose giving)
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Into the Country gone, to get a Living.
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How can we in our Heavenly course but stray,
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When those should guide Us thither, run away?
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They bid Us kneel when Heaven afflicts; not fly,
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And give their Doctrine (in their Deeds) the lye.
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As if our Errors (like Old Eli's Vice)
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Could never be atton'd by Sacrifice.
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Once said a Zealous Priest, Now Soldiers Fight;
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Who dyes today, shall sup with Christ at Night:
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A Pistol streight to the Priests Breast was set,
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Who cries, Pray Sir, I am not hungry yet.
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Too many thus with Canaan's Language stalk
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For their own ends; and make Gods Word meer talk.
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It follows then, their flight this wrong hath done us;
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Gods House shut up, and Lord have Mercy upon us.
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If still the Livite be resolv'd to fly?
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Go thy way for a Church-man, then say I.
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Lastly, when Sion has a Cause to Mourn,
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God does not bid Us ramble, but return.
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Thus Solomon has told Us in Times past,
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He that does fear the Lord, does not make hast.
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Then let us turn, and not our sins conceal,
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That Hand that Wounded Us, can only heal;
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Nothing can Cure Us of our Maladies,
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But the Bethesda of our troubled Eyes.
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Timor addidit alas.
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I, fuge, sed poteris tutior esse domi.
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London, Printed by R.D. 1665.
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